Pain relief
by v.d.mouse
Summary: Harry feels nothing but grief and guilt only pain can break him out of it. Then suddenly an offer of help comes from an unexpected source, but will he take it? WARNING I RATED THIS FIC SO HIGH AS IT CONTAINS SELFHARMING AND DEALS WITH SUICIDE


Disclaimer – The characters you see before you do not belong to me that is the whole truth and nothing but the truth – much to my annoyance cause if they were mine well I'd be a lot richer wouldn't I? – Instead they belong to J.K. Rowling and they made her rich instead of me. 

**WARNING – This fic contains self-harming and the subject of suicide if you do not like these subjects in any way then I strongly suggest you go find a different fic right now.**

Summary – A depressed and guilt filled Harry discovers that he can forget a pain with a different pain – but should he, someone unexpected shows him that while it may help it does not solve the problem. The new question now is – can Harry break from his new release?

Set just after fourth book - will be disregarding most of fifth and sixth books, as such consider it an AU.

My thanks to my ever brilliant beta Zephyr5.

* * *

Pain Relief – Chapter 1 

It had started over the summer holidays. Every night he would get less and less sleep; to begin with Voldemort had enjoyed tormenting him with the images of Cedric's death or images from the new raids, occasionally he would fall back on visions of raids from the first war, but that had soon changed when the evil son of a bitch realised that Harry could torture himself far better in his own dreams then any vision could.

At first it had angered Harry that his own sub-conscious could betray him so bitterly by making him relive that night or some of the nights from his visions so many times, but when it started to warp and change the dreams, he had to wonder if perhaps it had been trying to tell him something. To lead him to what was now his only release from the world that he knew hated him.

Each night he would wake in the early hours of the morning, covered in sweat, his heart pounding and his eyes burning with tears that he refused to shed. He would head for the bathroom after a while, making sure to avoid the squeaky floorboard; although the Dursley's left him alone for the most part, they certainly wouldn't appreciate being woken at such an 'ungodly hour'.

Once safely in the bathroom he would splash his face with cold water and stand there, shaking with the grief and guilt the twisted dreams had instilled in him. Eventually his composure, such as it was, would shatter completely, and he would slide to the floor, huddling into a ball and rocking back and forth as he sobbed silently, tears pouring down his face. Some time later the tears would stop, and he would splash more water on his face to erase the salty tracks left behind on his pale and gaunt face. Then he would return to his room, knowing all that awaited was the restless dark until it was time once more to rise and perform the infinite amount of chores his relatives expected of him each day.

Sometimes instead of going back to bed he would sit at the small desk and write to his friends. It was always the same. He would start with long letters pouring his feelings out, telling them everything. But when it came to sending them, the letters had become short notes stating he was fine and asking how their summer was going.

His beloved Hedwig, who could only watch her gentle master's fall into despairing darkness, would take the letters and return as soon as she could. She could only show affection to her master, letting him know she supported him. She dearly wished that she would have an opportunity to take one of the longer and confessional-like letters to his friends, maybe then one of them would help him, would save him. But they were always ripped and torn to shreds as soon as he had finished writing them, and before she could make an attempt to seize them from him.

Instead a short note, which really said nothing, would be placed into her talons and she would be sent to deliver it. She hated to leave him, even for those short journeys, because she knew that the longer he stayed away from the wizarding world, away from help, that the time might come when she discovered she no longer had a master to return to.

----

After his usual late night trip to the bathroom one night, Harry decide to sit up and try reading one of his textbooks as a change to the usual tossing and turning or letter writing. Picking up his DADA textbook for his upcoming year, (he had received his letter a week ago and proceeded to owl order his things), he was soon engrossed in all of the different spells and shields described in the book, and didn't even notice when dawn broke. It wasn't until he heard his uncle lumbering down the small landing to the bathroom, not even attempting to avoid the squeaky floorboard, that he realised the time.

He had been surprised that the Dursley's had allowed him to keep all his things this year, but he certainly wasn't going to question such an action, just in case they decided to change their minds. Putting the book back into his trunk, he started to get ready for the rest of the day. Soon enough breakfast had passed, his meagre rations eaten, and the chore list pushed into his hands with a growl to get moving or face being locked into the small bedroom.

He did all of the work mindlessly, allowing the hard slog of the labour to keep his mind distracted from the thoughts and feelings that plagued him at night. Not even the taunts from his cousin, or his oafish friends, registered, not that it stopped them making their mocking comments. Instead it seemed to make them even more determined to disrupt his work, ambushing and beating him as soon as he was out of sight of any adults. He took it all in the same, hollow way, neither reacting to protect himself nor even attempt to escape before they caught him.

It was while he was doing the washing up that something finally broke through the work-induced numbness. He had picked a handful of cutlery up off the side, and didn't notice the sharp cutting knife mixed in – normally he was careful to separate them out. Between wet, soapy hands, and a bad grip on the cutlery it was inevitable that they would slip and with an almighty crash they did so.

Perhaps if he had realised there was a cutting knife mixed in with the rest, Harry might have moved his arm out of the way, but he did not, and so, as the sharp knife tumbled into the sink with the rest of the cutlery, his arm was in the right place for the sharp blade to dig into his bare forearm.

The initial sting of pain caught his attention, and he drew his arm out of the water to discover the cause. The cut was only small, and only a small trickle of blood appeared, mixing with the drops of water to drip slowly down his arm and onto the floor, but it was enough to cause Aunt Petunia, who had appeared at the sound of the cutlery falling, to shriek about how he was simply _pouring_ blood all over her nice clean white floor. She promptly grabbed the collar of his too-big shirt and forcefully pushed him out of the backdoor, slamming it closed behind him.

Harry continued to stare dumbly at his right forearm. The initial sting was gone, replaced by a mild and irritating burning sensation, probably where the soapy water had entered the wound. It had only been a small nick, and it had already ceased bleeding, the little blood that had trickled down his arm already beginning to dry in the air.

It wasn't so much the sight of the blood that had Harry fascinated, but the sensation of pain. It felt…good… It felt…well, it just _felt_. Feeling was something he had recently come to think was reserved for grief and guilt alone. But now he had pain, stinging, burning, _pain_. Something he could see and, well, feel. Something he could feel that _didn't _leave him in a heap on the floor, tear tracks streaking his face.

Instead he was alive again, his mind blank and unencumbered by thoughts and emotions…free.

He didn't notice when his knees gave way, sending him crumbling to the ground. He remained there, lost in the sudden and unexpected freedom, until his aunt pulled him into the house once more and began to berate him on his actions earlier. After a tirade – none of which he actually heard – she pushed him in the direction of the stairs, ordering him to wash the blood off before returning to the kitchen for his meagre evening meal, which, she added pointedly, he should be thankful for, before removing his presence back into his room where he was to remain until the following day.

----

Harry woke in the early hours, more shaken than usual by the twist his dreams had taken. He had been in the graveyard again, Cedric dead, Voldemort resurrected and determined to duel him. They had been within the golden cage, their wands had connected, the vaporous ghosts of Voldemort's victims had appeared...and Voldemort had simply stood there and laughed. The shades had begun to spin around him, not Voldemort as they had in reality, and they had begun to taunt him, blaming and condemning him, affirming the guilt that everyone else had tried to absolve him of.

He headed to the bathroom in a half-hearted attempt to sink into the numbness of routine, but before he could slip to the floor and sob, his eyes fell upon his uncle's shaving razor.

He picked it up and rolled the small but bulky thing between his fingers. After a few moments he put it back down and then, seemingly lost in his thoughts, he turned and, as usual, turned the light off before leaving the bathroom.

However instead of returning to his room, as he had done every other night he made the journey to the small white room behind him, tonight he turned and headed down the stairs, making sure to miss the creaky ones. At the bottom he turned and headed into the kitchen. He left the light off, an unconscious decision he couldn't have explained if asked.

Had anyone seen him they would have thought Harry was walking in a trance, as though he didn't know what he was doing, yet he walked in a straight line to a drawer, pulled it open, and removed, without hesitation, the same cutting knife that had cut him earlier that day.

He slowly slid down to the floor, settling himself into a comfortable position with his legs crossed, his hands in his lap, and the knife resting easily in his hands. He sat there in the near-darkness, staring down at the small blade barely reflecting the weak light from the half moon sitting high in the sky.

Harry stared at his right arm and flexed it. The small, angry red mark from the earlier cut was no doubt still there, but it was impossible to see it in the poor light. He sat there for what seemed like several hours, a timelessness similar to his outbursts in the bathroom.

Eventually he stood and placed the knife back in the drawer before making his silent way back to his room. Climbing back into his bed he lay there, staring blankly up at the ceiling of the dark room. For the first time in weeks Harry found himself falling asleep and not having any dreams, just deep, almost restful, sleep.

----

The next few days passed as the most peaceful Harry had known since the night in the graveyard. But all too soon things returned to the way they had been. It seemed Voldemort was not happy that Harry was getting even such a small respite, and so decided to pay him a night time visit, showing him what he had been doing since he started to leave him alone at night. Harry awoke before the Dark Lord could move onto a walk down memory lane, re-visiting the night that he had shared his last words with Cedric.

He awoke that night covered in the expected sheen of sweat that such a dream caused. When he moved from under the thin covers and left 'his' room he didn't even hesitate but moved in an almost trance like state down the stairs and into the darkened kitchen. As before, he didn't put the lights on, just moved to the cutlery drawer and removed the same knife as before.

He sank down into the comfortable crossed-legged position but, unlike the last time, his arms did not fall into an almost lifeless hanging position with the small cutting knife cradled in his hands. This time his left arm lay across his legs, forearm sloping down into his lap, and gently, almost like a caress, he slowly drew the knife in his right hand across his skin. The sharp blade parted the many layers of skin easily, and a bright red line was created as blood welled up. Droplets of blood beaded and, caught by gravity, began to slowly trickle down his forearm, running down the fingers of his hand and into his lap.

He pulled the knife back and squinted through the darkness at what he had done. It was only then that he realised that his cut was deeper than the one from days ago. But even that realisation was dismissed, since it was clearly not life-threatening, and he had what he wanted.

He'd wanted the sharp, intense stinging he'd felt as the blade made its way through his skin. Now, after he had pulled the knife away and could feel the slow trickle of blood trailing its way down his arm, he had the burning sensation of damaged nerves screaming their agony to his brain. It was a cold, yet somehow fiery sensation as his body registered that it had been damaged, that it was losing even a small amount of that precious ruby fluid. Already it had begun the slow but determined slog to repair itself, but for now there was still the wound, and the pain.

It was that which he craved, the pain, the feeling, the sensation of something other than guilt that he had survived, whilst another young man with a bright future was denied his life, his chance at something…anything.

He sat there, allowing the pain, the burning, to dominate his thoughts, his mind. It was all he could feel, all he would allow himself to feel at this moment. It filled his world and thus freed him from the world's clinging hold on him. He could almost taste the freedom it brought, and at such a small price.

He sat there for an unknown amount of time, but by the time he roused himself the blood had dried and, were it to be seen in decent lighting, had turned a dull brownish red colour from its original liquid crimson.

Standing he ignored the increase in the burning in his forearm, his body protesting as the movement stretched the damaged skin. He turned the kitchen tap on, straining his hearing for any indication of people stirring upstairs, it would not do to get caught at this point. He cleaned the cutting knife gently, reverently, as though he owed it something, before he placed it back into the drawer and then made his silent way back to 'his' room.

Harry slid under his sheets, hissing slightly when the thin coverings came into contact with the new, and still sore, mark on his arm. The threads tangled with the rough scab that was forming, pulling and tearing chunks away. Fresh blood welled up, and he cradled his arm close to his body in an attempt to stop any blood from smearing the bed sheets. If his aunt saw it he was certain that she would shriek at him and rant about keeping the place clean, and how ungrateful he was for daring to spill even one drop of blood, making the place a mess.

That there was blood at all she either would assume came from another accident, or wouldn't care about enough to ask.

----

The last few weeks of the holidays followed the same pattern, a night of cutting and then a few nights of relative peace. Sometimes it would take only the pain of one cut sometimes two but it would always have the same end result. The Dursleys never realised what was happening – no doubt they would have complained about him using _their_ knife for it if they had – but that didn't really surprise Harry; they hadn't really cared enough to notice his nightly trips to the bathroom, so why should they notice his less-frequent journeys to see his friend in the kitchen?

Finally September first came, and his Uncle reluctantly drove him into London and left him at Kings Cross station. It wasn't long before Harry was on the platform and boarding the Hogwarts express, his friends quickly joining him in a whirlwind of summer holidays stories, and the occasional acquaintance dropping into their carriage to say hello as they travelled to Hogwarts itself.

In reality it took nearly an hour, but it seemed like only minutes before the sorting and the welcoming feast was over, and Harry was able to retire to the Gryffindor dormitory and slide under the thick, warm blankets of the castle beds. It was one of the peaceful nights, although whether it was due to the day-old, and still livid, cut on his left bicep, or because he was in the one place he considered his home, he didn't know. Whatever the reason, that night Harry was not plagued by his demons of despair.

----

He managed for three days before he found himself sneaking out of Gryffindor tower covered with his father's cloak. That night he wondered he corridors aimlessly not sleeping, just thinking. It was only two weeks before he lost the care to take the cloak with him. He earned several detentions that way, especially from Snape.

No one seemed to notice his blank attitude to life. Neither his friends nor his tutors, or so he thought, yet it seemed that after the fourth night of aimless wandering without the cloak, he earned the concerned gaze of both a pair of crystal blue eyes and a pair of deep black eyes. Neither sure what was wrong, but both knowing that something _was_ wrong.

It was around then that Harry's closest friends began to share concerned looks at how pale he was, and how quiet and withdrawn he had become. A few times Hermione seemed to try and make him talk, but every time he managed to evade her probing questions, and as long as he made sure to keep eating, he knew they could do nothing more than watch - and _try _to talk. All of that he could evade or pretend not to notice. It was easy, since he honestly just didn't care.

----

He knew that to try the kitchens and the house-elves would lead inevitably to his discovery, and the knowledge of what he was doing finding its way back to the old man. Part of him shrewdly told him that this would not be a wise thing for said old man to know. But how else, _where_ else, could he get the knife he needed, the privacy he needed?

It was two weeks into the new school year before Harry discovered an answer to his questions; before he discovered a way to continue with his favourite escape…

----

As he was wandering the corridors late one night, the pressure from the guilt, coupled with the need for release, finally became too much, and Harry found himself sliding down a wall in what he thought to be a deserted corridor. He was blissfully unaware of the dark eyes watching him, and sat there, silent tears running down his face, knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees.

When the tears finally stopped, he slowly pulled himself up, only then realising, to his horror, that there was a portrait just across from him. Fortunately, as he watched it closely, half expecting either a lecture or to be informed that Dumbledore was going to learn of his breakdown, he realised that it was completely unmoving. That's strange, he thought. What would a _muggle _portrait be doing in _Hogwarts_?

Harry moved closer, intrigued, and spotted a small golden plaque beneath the frozen portrait.

Yrmenlaf Gryffindor 

**Heir of Godric Gryffindor**

**Born: 1012 AD **

**Died: 1166 AD**

**As brave as his father and as wise as his mother.**

His eyes widened as he read what it said, before flicking to scrutinize the noble-looking old man in the portrait, who seemed to be staring at him with kind, gentle eyes filled with warmth. Harry seemed frozen, staring into those eyes.

For several long moments nothing happened, but then, to the sudden surprise of the still-watchful eyes, Harry seemed to give a small whimper, before launching himself at the portrait. It seemed as though he was attempting to rip the eyes from the figure in the canvas so that they could not stare at him, and indeed, that was Harry's intent, for to him the eyes were neither warm nor compassionate, but filled with pity.

Tears were once again flowing down Harry's face, and he jumped back in shock when a few of them landed on the plaque, causing it to emit a blinding white flash of light. He blinked a few times as he registered that nothing seemed to have changed. Confused, but snapped out of his blind rage, Harry stumbled backwards to lean against the wall opposite the portrait. He contemplated the picture, now sporting more than a few scratch marks from his nails, then turned away. Before he walked away, however, he looked over his shoulder at the picture once more. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain as to whether he'd really seen a brief flash of pain in the portraits face. Harry gave a small shake of his head, dismissing it as an illusion, before moving back into the darkness of the corridor.

----

The shadows of the corridor, that Harry had thought deserted, still hid the contemplative figure of Severus Snape. Never before, in all his years, had he seen someone so…open and vulnerable. But more than that, never before had he been filled with such a desperate need to help, to comfort what was clearly a shattered young man.

Slowly the tall, stoic man made his way back to his own private quarters, where he spent the rest of the evening with a glass of scotch. The scene he had witnessed, of such a helpless young man – clearly feeling a level of despair that no fifteen-year-old should – replayed uneasily in his minds eye, over and over again. By the time he made his way to bed, having been driven to drink more than he normally would on a school night, he had decided to speak with the Headmaster about what he had seen.

He fully intended to have the old man get Minerva to deal with the young Gryffindor, since he _was _Head of Slytherin and, as such, it was _not_ his problem.

Yet something about the 'Potter brat' still troubled him. The whole situation had a familiar feel to it, but _what_ it was familiar to seemed to be just beyond his grasp, leaving him with a sense that his part in all of it had only just begun, despite his plans to pass it off to his colleagues…

----

AN :- And so it begins can Snape really help Harry? Why would he? And is he truly the best for the job?

Never really thought I would write such a dark fic, guess the mood just struck me along with my muses and this fic is the result. Next chapter is nearly complete so after I get it back from my beta I'll put it up but we are both really busy at the mo with real lives so it may be a few months but it will come I promise. Once I start a fic I never abandon it.

Any questions please feel free to ask them.

Keep writing and have fun

V.d.mouse


End file.
